


A Picture's Worth (At Least) a Few Hundred Words

by DragonWarden



Category: Tron (1982), Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Betrayal, Tron: Evolution, Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:17:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonWarden/pseuds/DragonWarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm often inspired by fanart into producing drabbles and ficlets, which I'll collect here in an open-ended format. Each chapter is independent of the others, and I'll continue adding to this as I produce new ones. At the top of each chapter in the notes section I will provide links to the inspiring illustration.</p><p>
  <strong>Latest chapter:</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Pride Goeth</strong>
  <br/>
  <em>There was a slow clap, and the face of the creator creased, and the voice of the creator said, “Good. Very good.”</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Winzler's](http://winzler.tumblr.com) sketch: <http://307020.com/post/10173820331/drew-this-on-the-bus-my-commute-so-boring>
> 
> Fear is a survival mechanism. Doubt is a tool of guidance. Together, they lead a program from mistakes, damage, or deresolution.

_Fear is a survival mechanism. Doubt is a tool of guidance. Together, they lead a program from mistakes, damage, or deresolution._

One foot braced against the floor, he undocked his disc, letting its cutting edge flare to life.

 _Courage is what stands against fear when there is more than mere survival at stake._

The viral mass seethed before him, individuality lost amidst a jagged sea of misaligned voxels and febrile circuits, loaded beyond capacity.

 _Faith is what subsumes doubt when success lies in action and not ambivalence._

He curled over his cycle, its subsonic hum straining to a piercing shriek as it leaped forward -

 _Courage. Faith. Together, they lead a program to the ultimate fulfillment of their directive …_

\- braced against the _crunch_ of bodies beneath -

 _… their potential …_

\- timed the kick that sent him bursting through - over - the viral wake -

 _… their destiny._

\- and felt a satisfaction nearly as fierce as joy as he swept his disc into its first, cleansing arc.


	2. How Sweet My Satisfaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This. _This_ must be what satisfaction felt like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Oftaggrivated's](http://oftaggrivated.tumblr.com/) illustration: <http://bit.ly/yqy9Zq>

The first cadre of repurposed programs were being test-marched through their newly indoctrinated formations far below, and Clu felt a tight smile curve his mouth as he watched.

The lines were immaculate. Movements exquisitely synchronized. Their instantaneous execution of the drill leader’s each command was an embodiment of efficiency and efficacy, the processing overhead of a hundred individual decision trees and statistical heuristics now absent. They were the concentrated distillation of everything that was needed to perform an action - absolutely nothing more and nothing less.

On this one stage, he had managed perfection. Flawlessness. An unsurpassable degree of absolute excellence, and was poised to instate it over the entire Grid. Against all the odds which entropy and User fecklessness had imposed upon him, he had single-handedly engineered the path to achieving his primary directive.

And yet, somehow, it all still felt as if it lay somewhere short of _**satisfaction**_.

Movement, at the edge of his vision, and Clu’s head snapped up, refocusing upon the reflection in the throne room’s window. Saw, first, Rinzler’s silhouette, slipping through the entrance. Saw, second, his own image, mirrored ghost-like before him, and how his expression hardened.

Kevin Flynn. That was why he could not feel satisfaction, even if he had managed to achieve perfection today. Kevin Flynn was still out there, in no small part due to what stood directly behind him, and as long as Flynn was free, cloaked in his User powers and User mythos, then perfection was at risk … and a perfection that was not self-sustaining meant that it was not, in fact, absolutely perfect.

Clu whirled, lips peeling back, and snarled, “Tron.”

The dark form, standing sentinel in the room’s center, did not budge. The only difference came from that staccato burr - what had had initially filled the corners with a languid grumble now sharpened to an almost grating pitch.

He paused, reconsidering his impatience. “Rinzler.”

The helmet dipped. Acknowledgment, obedience … Clu’s.

And, finally, Clu thought he might have actually _**glimpsed**_ satisfaction in that moment as he grinned, then threw his head back and laughed, sweeping toward his throne. “Rinzler. Face the windows here and kneel.”

He swept his coat behind him as he sank down upon the seat, laying his hands gently down upon the throne’s arms as he eyed his domain:

A kernel of perfection marching below him, waiting to bloom.

The uninterrupted vista from his seat of power, uncontested.

Before him, his opponent’s champion, lowered; defeated.

“Bow, Rinzler,” he whispered.

The head bent and the spine curled. He raised one foot, let it hover for a moment over one armored shoulder, then let it settle; wiggling it until the boot’s heel settled into an unseen depression. Something tight and hot unfurled within him as he raised his other leg and crossed it over the other. Looked up, to find himself once again within that illusionary mirror.

This time, his double was smiling back at him.

This. _**This**_ must be what satisfaction felt like.


	3. Have We Met Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were good people. Here at Tron City, the last outpost before the Outlands, the empire was a distant and indifferent presence; the only condition under which Yori was willing to operate in the Service anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Winzler's](http://winzler.tumblr.com) illustration: <http://307020.com/post/11403364225/heres-a-more-military-styled-rinzler-for-dw-and>

_"Lieutenant Yori, the corridor's closing - !"_

"I know. Calm down, folks," Yori stated, raising her voice so that she may be heard throughout the small comm center as well as by the remote tech. A long look around managed to put her in eye contact with most of the staff, and after she was satisfied that they were all paying attention to her rather than their consoles, she ordered, "Give me all channels, Technician - "

 _"All channels? Are you sure, lieute - "_

"Yes," Yori stated, mouth twitching in spite of her brief irritation at the tech's audible confusion. If she remembered correctly, the remote stations had just received some fresh recruits; he sounded like he was barely old enough to be out of Basic. "Please assume from now on that I want what I am asking for. Give me all channels as soon as this communication is over. People, we have an Omega-Four priority, let's pull ourselves together. Get me a direct line to that squad leader as soon as you can on channel four. We can divert the 23rd squadron to help cover - the merchants will have to make do with just the home guard. If there's an emergency, flash it on screen two; otherwise, I don't want to hear it. Let's go."

They were good people. Here at Tron City, the last outpost before the Outlands, the empire was a distant and indifferent presence; the only condition under which Yori was willing to operate in the Service anymore. There was no hesitation from the tech now as her headset abruptly exploded with comm chatter, and with practiced ease, Yori mentally catalogued the dozen or so voices she heard and began prioritizing conversation threads. "Station Three, tell the captain he can hire his own mercenaries next time if the home guard's not good enough and cut his line. We're already doing them enough favors as it is. Station Eight, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Focus or get yourself a replacement. Tech, where is my line with that squad leader? They just lost another escort - "

 _"Sorry ma'am, he's entered local overrides. It won't accept my hails."_

So, they had a stubborn one. Granted, from the complicated weave of lights on the overhead displays, Yori could see why he would be a little preoccupied. "Distraction could get him killed, but if he doesn't listen to us, he might still get killed. Activate the beacon; tap it at your discretion." She could almost hear the audible suck of air over the channel, and tacked on before he could protest, "I can't make the call with a half-second delay between us. I trust your judgment."

 _" ... yes ma'am."_

She would have to speak to assignments after this, putting someone so green out on the Rim post, but so far he was holding up under the pressure and she made a mental note to put in a commendation later. She was able to close down another channel after that, weeding essential communications down to two lines, before she saw one of the blue-lit dots - a friendly, weaving dizzingly through the red-marked ambushers - lurch to one side, and a mere second later, the tech babbled frantically, _"I-I have him ma'am patching through now uh no ident tag so - "_

 _" - will quarter you myself if - !"_

"This is Lieutenant Yori, please stop terrorizing my technician," she interrupted primly. She did not like the sense of real threat in the gravel-toned voice, but no doubt the emergency beacon had been an unpleasant surprise in the midst of a life-or-death skirmish. Designed to pull in ships that had incapacitated operators before they reached the minefield of asteroids, it would have dealt a rude wake-up call to anyone who had assumed they were the only one in control of their vessel.

 _"Lieutenant, you're hereby relieved of duty - "_

Yori could feel her brows snap down and her chin jut forward stubbornly, no matter that three miles of vacuum currently separated them. "I think you have more pressing concerns right now, Mister. I've already dispatched the 23rd to your location, but it will be at least another two minutes before they can be of any real use to you. I have an escape route for you and your men - that is, if you're interested."

Silence.

"The man's got balls," she muttered beneath her breath, earning herself a startled glance from the woman manning the nearest station. But after another blue and two red dots disappeared from the screens, the comm clicked.

 _"We're ready. You've got ten seconds."_

"Frequency channel 42. Encryption protocol two-two-four-Zeta. Be ready for a burst transmission. Soon as you make it to the inner ring, we can take it from there. Good luck."

 _"Acknowledged."_

Yori rocked back on her heels with a sigh. "All right, thanks everyone, it's out of our hands now."

Tron City was nestled within the natural defenses of the Andrean Asteroid Belt, and a vast array of sensors helped them track and project the myriad vectors of the debris field. While there were two official corridors of passage for public traffic which they maintained with near-field explosives, there were also dozens of temporary or mobile corridors which they monitored for emergencies. It was a tough choice to authorize the transmission of one of these "secret" passageways with unfriendlies within range, but between an Omega-Four prioritization and the latest intel indicating that the encryption key she had authorized had not been broken yet, Yori would have to trust that she had made the right decision.

"ETE?" she asked distantly, eyes glued to the screens as the dots - blue and red alike - slewed around to dive into the outter belt of asteroids.

"They should reach the inner ring in eight minutes, Lieutenant. The 23rd can rendezvous in - wait, what ..."

Yori actually stepped forward, her hand automatically reaching for her headset though the channel was already selected. "What's going on? Squad leader, what are you doing - " she demanded as one of the three remaining blue dots broke away from the predetermined path.

Predictably, there was no response, but it soon became all too clear what was going on. There were still two unfriendlies left, and they were driving recklessly into the field, risking a collision for the chance to cut them off at a later juncture - a hairpin turn that they shouldn't have known about.

"Inform intel that the encryption's been broken," Yori muttered to the nearest station tech, fuming inside as she unmuted her mike. "Squad leader, the 23rd should reach you in a minute - "

 _"This won't take a minute."_

Yori blinked at the curt response, but didn't dare interrupt as the rogue friendly on screen made a hair-raisingly close twist around a marked obstacle. "He's flying on visuals and short-freq radar alone," a tech gasped, but Yori didn't bother reprimanding her as she continued watching with baited breath.

The cameras that were placed within the fields were few and far between, and none were within range of the skirmish. All they had were the impersonal blue and red markers to sketch the battle's movements, and she had to resist multiple urges to check when the nearest cameras would reach the site.

As promised by the squad leader, it didn't take long. Whoever it was flying, they were even more daring than the unfriendlies, skimming so close to the asteroids that she could have sworn that they were using the rocks as makeshift launchpads. One red dot dispersed rapidly under the onslaught, caught off guard while it had been chasing the other ships, and while the second managed to dodge the first few shots, it was clear that it had become the hunted and it too soon met its end.

"23rd, stand down," Yori eventually commanded, feeling oddly displaced. The rogue friendly was regrouping with the others; it was clear that it had only needed the extra distraction of the asteroid field with its squadmates playing rabbit to deal with the remaining ambushers.

When the first whispers began, Yori sent a quelling look around the room, suppressing the inevitable talk that would arise. "Hangar on screen, please," she ordered, and the comm center instantly fell silent again, the gossipers now focused on the first glimpse of their unexpected guests.

It was a long twelve minutes as the squad navigated the remainder of the outter and inner belts, but by the time the three singed and battered vessels landed, all heads were craned toward the central viewscreen. Yori let it slide, her arms crossed as she watched with furrowed brow, gaze focused upon the lead fighter as ground crew scrambled over to pop the canopy and perform their inspections.

"Is that - "

" - can't be, but that uniform - nobody else'd dare to wear that ... "

"Whoa. What would he be doing out here - "

"Quiet!" Yori snapped, only slightly appalled that she had lost her cool now, after the crisis had already been averted, but not at all apologetic that it would be over the emperor's own pet.

Eschewing the boarding ladder, the squad leader leapt directly to the deck, absorbing the shock with an easy grace in spite of the twelve foot drop. The black uniform cut close to a lean figure, its distinctive orange markings almost glowing against the dark field, and he turned to look directly up at the hangar camera - steel-blue eyes regarding them all with uncanny directness - before he gave a single, curt nod and strode for the deck's exit.


	4. Do Programs Dream of Hexadecimal Sheep?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam hoped for a moment that he had managed to shake the program from his weird fugue, but then Tron dashed it with a dream-like, "I found a lost memory block. Her. Yori."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Shirozora's](http://shirozora.tumblr.com) illustration: <http://shirozora.tumblr.com/post/13051650774/actually-im-not-sure-what-i-was-going-to-say-or>

It was never completely dark in the room - just as nothing on the Grid was ever truly unlit or fully illuminated - but someone had taken pains to reduce the natural glow of flowing energy to a minimum since the last time Sam had visited. The broad window running the length of the outside wall had been instructed to black itself out, the overhead and floor luminaires shut down, and now the only sources of light came from the angled tracery of veins that maintained the room's code structure and dimensions.

Those, and the room's lone occupant. Tron stood statue-still facing one of the walls, right arm bent as if he had been about to raise a hand; had been motionless that way for at least the last dozen nanocycles in which Sam had lurked and watched.

Sam might have worried that the program had suffered some sort of freeze or crash except that the suit's pinpoint lights remained bright and steady. Even with that small reassurance, though, he was only able to give the tableau two more nanocycles before circling his way around the room's perimeter - careful to step within Tron's peripheral vision long before he entered the program's potential attack range. "Hey," he prompted quietly, shuffling to a stop when he was able to get just within arm's length.

Tron confirmed he was still online with a slow, studied blink, and precious little else.

Sam suppressed a wince when it became obvious that this would be done the hard way. "Uh, everything all right?" In the room's thick shadows, it was hard to tell the difference, but he thought he saw a muscle in the program's jaw tighten, so he finally ventured to reach out and lay a hand upon Tron's shoulder. "Hey, c'mon, let's take it to a chair at least, all right? I'm beginning to think I was told to stand in a corner or something - "

Just as his fingers would have touched the sleek black armor there was a subtle _lean_ away, the exact amount of distance necessary to maintain a sliver of air between them.

"Okay, that's cool, I gotcha, no contact. C'mon, Tron - " Sam tried to coax, hands held up and open in a show of respecting Tron's personal space when the program abruptly murmured, "There was a hiddden panel here."

Sam blinked, waited a beat to see if there would be anything else forthcoming, and hesitantly pointed out, "Uh, I made this room. I'm pretty sure there's nothing - "

Tron finally moved, raising that arm that he had left half-hanging all this time, and seemed so _certain_ as he rested spread fingertips upon the wall that Sam half-held his breath in anticipation of some miracle interface materializing beneath his gaze. "She touched it. Like this."

Sam grimaced, wiped a hand over his face, and mumbled into his palm, "Oh god, I am so not qualified for this ... " before bracing himself with a full breath. "You, uhm ... you wanna talk about it? I mean, I can keep my mouth shut if you just want an ear or something - "

Tron's brow pinched ever so slightly, the ghost of a frown that he always wore when puzzling through user terminology. Sam hoped for a moment that he had managed to shake the program from his weird fugue, but then Tron dashed it with a dream-like, "I found a lost memory block. Her. Yori."

Sam shifted his weight to lean against the wall as he resigned himself to a long confession, the cool brush of an energy line evident even through his jacket behind his shoulder. "Yeah? Who's Yori?"

"She was my ... " The program's expression twisted, smoothed, then furrowed again as he struggled. "She was a ... Lora_B was her user," he eventually finished, slow and hesitant, as if it had not been what he had intended to say at all.

"Seriously?" Sam's brows rose. "Hey, that's pretty cool. They're married, you know? Your users, I mean. Lora and Alan Bradley, they're together like - " he rambled until something changed in Tron's expression and Sam abruptly felt his throat close up as suspicion clogged it, dark and ominous. "Wait, so ... uh, where's Yori now?"

 _What is Yori to you?_ was what Sam had really wanted to ask, but was afraid he already knew as the cool blue suit lights gave a tell-tale waver and Tron's body began to curl in on itself; tense and trembling.

The security program didn't just _look_ like Alan. He had inherited all of Alan's dogged loyalty, the man's unwavering belief, perhaps - probably - even the man's desires and affections ... "Hey, hey, it's okay, I can run some searches - "

"No."

" - for you if you want and ... and ... " He stuttered to a halt, mental wheels spinning wildly for a moment. "Wh-why? I could trace her logs - "

 _"I don't want to know!"_

And all of Sam's worst fears curdled and solidified in his stomach as Tron's hand clenched, then flattened upon the wall, grip sliding down the smooth surface as the program sank to his knees.

"Tron! Hey! It's okay, I won't look, all right, I promise. But the system's still sorting itself out and maybe she'll just show up on her own one of these cycles and - " Or maybe she won't, and Tron will assume the worst - including all the garish possibilities of what his involvement in her fate had been - and Sam grimaced, feeling distinctly out of his depth as he slumped down next to the heartbroken program.

Heartbroken. Did programs love? They knew resentment. Hate. They understood revenge, faith, mercy. It would seem cruel, if they could know all that and not love, and yet, seeing Tron now, Sam wondered how anything could be worse.

Sam slowly reached out, and when Tron did not move this time, slipped his hand around the bowed head to curl his fingers around the back of the program's neck, tugging lightly. A small noise, and Tron's shoulders hitched before he yielded and let his forehead press against Sam's shoulder; one arm curling around to clutch the jacket's hem at his back. "She pressed her fingers there ... and the whole room changed.

"She was filled with light ... "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my laptop screen ain't the best for art stuff. Brightness and contrast are awesome, but even if I did try to color-correct it, I don't think it's CAPABLE of ever being truly calibrated. So, when I saw this image? It looked monochrome to me. I thought it was supposed to BE monochrome. And so I had all this emotional investment in this really awful-tender-looking moment and I'm typing this vignette up and feeding Winzler little snippets when she suddenly goes "AW GOD THIS IS GONNA BE TRAGIC ENNIT" and I'm like ... ????
> 
> Then she pointed out that Tron's lights are LILAC. As in ... Fun-Times Lilac. And then my brain came to a hard stop and I flailed a while before deciding that I had to at least finish this first before I could manage to process anything else. So here you go, an artistically alternative interpretation! >.>


	5. Mirror Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thankfully, Alan_1 did not hesitate, did not ask again; his User had, at least, accorded him that much respect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Baysalt's](http://baysalt.tumblr.com) illustration: <http://baysalt.tumblr.com/post/13704675185/some-kind-of-rinzler-and-evil-alan-i-still-have>

The room was completely bare - merely an extension of a default template, not even a chair instantiated - with the only noteworthy modification a window that now took up the entire wall facing the city, gleaming in the near distance. There was a single figure standing off-center before the vista, outlined by the Grid's natural, ambient glow; facing outwards, hands tucked into pants pockets, feet apart. The clean lines of its silhouette was marred by folds of fabric, cloth bunched up where Grid-suits would have been sleek and spare ... User clothing, obeying User rules; draped rather than rezzed upon a frame that he knew as intimately as his own.

"You don't need to lurk."

Words spoken by a voice that was just as familiar. He hung as there was a moment of conflict, one block calling for - _pride reverence shoulders-back head-up_ \- and another castigating - _shame camouflage back-curved head-down_ \- before the figure turned, half-profile now, and new variables - _impatience_ _expectation_ \- broke the stalemate and he padded across the floor.

"Hm. Lora claims she finds me cute when I'm shy - I wasn't sure I believed her."

He stopped, a respectful half-step behind and to the right, head inclined at a degree to indicate attentiveness, if not understanding.

"I'm still not sure I believe her." Alan_1's head tilted at precisely the same angle in the opposite direction, mouth crooked at a slope that, if it had been his own expression, would have indicated ruefulness. But before he could even begin to parse his own reaction to the flags of - _empathy sympathy comraderie welcome_ \- that his user was displaying, it all melted away, replaced by something that he knew all too well how to interpret. "Are you ready?"

He knew that - _grim determined sober_ \- look; had worn it for long cycles himself before Alan_1 found him and brought him back to himself. It was the one he was wearing now as he answered in the same voice, "Yes."

Thankfully, Alan_1 did not hesitate, did not ask again; his User had, at least, accorded him that much respect. Ungloved fingers rose, rested gently over his emblem, and he determinedly kept his eyes open ... watched as the cool tint of shadows nearby began to obtain a familiar, ruddy edge; lapsed with only a blink when a thousand hooks of code latched tight with a soft reboot.

Alan_1's hand fell away, and he could see his own eyes, like bits of User fire, reflected in the User glasses. "Are you ready?"

This time his response was a bare dip of his head and a low, rumbling growl; gaze slanted toward the distant city, eager to begin.

Alan_1 smiled - _small tight implacable conspiratorial_ \- and turned to look too at their mutual target, just as eager. "Excellent. The bastard won't know what hit him."


	6. Studies In Salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down one branch: The arm around her middle was too tight to be either comforting or comfortable.
> 
> Down the other: She refused to give that other aspect of him any quarter, even the acknowledgment of identity.
> 
> A 2-in-1 ficlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Oftaggrivated's](http://oftaggrivated.tumblr.com/) illustration: <http://oftaggrivated.tumblr.com/post/15612392423/dw-t-i-love-your-choice-of-only-showing-the>
> 
> This is a "2-in-1" ficlet - where two alternative interpretations are provided for a single image, essentially AUs of each other. This was initially instigated by Oftaggrivated's observations on her illustration.

**The way of the first …**

The grip came so suddenly, she could not suppress a reflexive jump before she froze.

The arm around her middle was too tight to be either comforting or comfortable. She could feel the hot line of his thumb against her throat when she swallowed. His hair brushed her cheek, curling over her ear; she could feel the intermittent warmth of his breath.

“I see. Very well. I do hope you keep him satisfied, Yori. For your sake,” Clu smirked, coat’s edge swirling about his ankles as he turned, sentries falling into step behind him.

Where their red and blue circuits crossed, the reflections merged into lilac. A mockery of what they once had.

* * *

 **The way of the second …**

“Tron.”

And though that sick, scattered rumbling sharpened in warning, Yori did not relent; she refused to give that other aspect of him any quarter, even the acknowledgment of identity.

“It’s all right. I’m here, I’ll always be here for you … “

When his arms finally loosened, she turned within their circle and cupped his damaged face between her hands. “You don’t need to hold on to me so tightly, Tron. After all, I’m holding on to you too.”


	7. In a Mirror, Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down one branch: Tron could almost _feel_ something fracturing inside as he stared at the monstrosity standing before him.
> 
> Down the other: Oh, Tron. What have you become?
> 
> A 2-in-1 ficlet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [StDeneb's](http://stdeneb.tumblr.com/) illustration: <http://stdeneb.tumblr.com/post/15555252486/tron-and-rinzler-how-would-this-even-happen-8d>
> 
> This is a "2-in-1" ficlet - where two alternative interpretations are provided for a single image, essentially AUs of each other.

_  
**What Might Have Been ...**   
_

Tron could almost _feel_ something fracturing inside as he stared at the monstrosity standing before him.

His face. His form. But its eyes a dull, flat orange; circuits flushed with the same, fever heat.

"No ... how did you ... that's not me, that's not me, that's not - "

"No?" The rhetorical question was a smooth purr next to his own hoarse, broken ramblings, and Tron shuddered. The hands upon his arms - all that kept him upright - tightened. "That _is_ you. _He_ is you. Perhaps you're not even who you think you are - "

No, how could it even be possible, this - this blasphemy? "You can't ... you're lying ... "

"Am I? You were broken, Tron. I've fixed you. Bestow your eyes upon perfection ... this is what you were meant to be."

No ... no ... he could feel the fissures widening, could feel a touch upon his back, someone trying to wedge their way deeper, deeper ...

Desperation twisted an arm free, tried to touch that _thing's_ face, because it must be a forgery, a clever skin. If only he could touch it, he could certify the truth; just a fleeting brush, just a single sampling -

No, another, the next will reveal -

Another -

And another -

"Do you believe me now, Tron?"

 __  
_But I don't want to go among mad people._

He hadn't understood, then. He hadn't known what it meant, until now.

 _Oh, you can't help that._

Something was shattering. A mirror?

 _We're all mad here._

* * *

 **  
_What Might Be Now ..._   
**

_Oh, Tron. What have you become?_

A user's words, a user's _will_ , held a power within the Grid like no other. Tron stirred, attention flagged, but just as he would have stepped forward, a hand fell upon his arm.

He turned to see himself, a reflection in coral hues, the chin lowered in warning and a single, sharp shake of the head.

He frowned. "I should go." This time. This time, he had a good feeling.

The grip tightened, normally dead eyes flaring. Once, he had read threat and danger in them. That had been a long time ago.

"And if not at a user's call, then when?" he retorted stiffly, back straightening, squaring his shoulders with a surety he had not felt in hundreds of cycles.

The head bowed, hiding the ochre gaze, and he relented enough to turn the face back to him.

"This has gone on long enough. I am ready. It's time."

He marked each flop that passed while his other's grip remained, but as critical as time was, this was just as important. Their symbiosis was a strange and difficult affair, but after this long, it would have been just as bizarre to carry on without agreement as to need an agreement at all.

Finally, a shrug. The hand fell away. Tron nodded, before he turned his back -

 _"I fight for the users."_

\- and pushed the throttle to the stops.


	8. Playtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Winzler's](http://winzler.tumblr.com) illustration: <http://307020.com/post/15580014509/i-saw-a-photo-in-tumblr-that-had-this-pose-and-my>
> 
> This little scene popped into my head when I noticed the glasses dangling from Tron's grip.

Tron tilted his head, bird-like, in the way that Alan’s learned to interpret as rapid exchanges of read/write access going on - in essence, _heavy thinking_ \- and then one gloved hand rose slowly.

Alan held still as the program made his intentions clear, blinking rapidly at the lines of light that half-blinded his left eye when Tron took hold of his glasses on that side, delicately sliding them off his face. Bemused, he watched as his program held them pinched carefully between his fingers, examining it from one angle and the next, before slowly turning them around … and then sliding them onto his own face.

Alan blinked and Tron blinked back owlishly through the lenses, and Alan was suddenly reminded so much of a child trying on his parents’ clothes to see what they were like that he had to bite his lip against a well-meaning chuckle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to see an absolutely HILARIOUS follow-up comic that [love-charlatte](http://love-charlatte.tumblr.com/) drew in response to this scene, [click here](http://love-charlatte.tumblr.com/post/15602991560/whut-ficlet-playtime).


	9. Wherefore My Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end came on a chilly October morning, with a skirl of autumn leaves amidst a hail of gunfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Winzler's](http://winzler.tumblr.com) illustration: <http://307020.com/post/15743073430/chat-idea-clu-rinzler-and-jarvis-as-mobsters>
> 
> I would really really REALLY love to get to a scene eventually where Rinzler and Tron's facing off in a gun-fu battle a la Equilibrium. But in the meantime, here have a prologue!

The beginning of the end came on a chilly October morning, with a skirl of autumn leaves amidst a hail of gunfire.

Alan could vividly recall the sting of road rash upon his palms, the plumes of their breaths twisting in the stiff breeze, goosebumps prickling his arm where his jacket had been pulled askew. The sun was too bright or the air too thin; even squinting from where he had lain sprawled upon the ground, he could only make out a halo of coppery hair, narrowed blue eyes, and a smug, off-centered smirk.

Bradley had stood between him and the man, shoulders bowed forward and his weight balanced over his toes, as if he had a fighting chance against the gun pointed at his center mass. Two more shots had echoed between distant blocks - _pop, pop_ \- before all fell to quiet but for the harsh drag of air through Alan's throat.

"What's your name, boy?"

Alan wasn't even aware he had begun moving until there was a warning scrape of a shoe behind him, nudging his near hand. Bradley's gaze never wavered from the man in the elegantly tailored coat with the gun trained upon his heart, snapping out his gamer's handle without pause for even a blink. "Rinzler."

"And his?"

"Tron."

The smirk twitched, widened. "Cute."

Alan burst up from the ground, scraping one palm raw, only to have the breath knocked out of him with a grunt when a hand slapped down on his shoulder and wrenched him back against a chest that felt as broad and solid as a brick wall. "Brad - !" he croaked, careless with their names, because he was certain that the man was going to shoot his brother for his insolence, that he was going to watch his twin die right before him today -

"Just passing through, were you?"

Even Bradley rocked back in surprise when the gun's aim lowered, a gloved thumb sliding conspicuously over the safety. "What?"

"I heard him," the man nodded toward one of the limp, bloodied bodies on a corner. "He was rather hard to ignore, as loud as he was, screaming at you to join the fight. But, somehow, you still managed to do so."

"We're not part of them - " Alan spat.

" - we're not part of _any_ gang," Bradley emphasized with a glare at the man and the half-dozen suits now arrayed behind him.

"Is that so." Alan tensed and Bradley's shoulders were curling forward again, but the man abruptly smiled, revealing startlingly white teeth. "Well, good for you, man. Finally, some independent thought in this town. It's been a pleasure, Rinzler, Tron ... " he bade with a negligent wave toward Alan, and he staggered as the bracing grip on his arms abruptly left and his erstwhile captor went to join the others now turning away.

"Wait, that's ... that's it?" Bradley stuttered.

"What, you want some milk and cookies too?" Bradley automatically bristled, but even as Alan gripped his brother's arm in warning, the man's mouth curled into that knowing smirk once more before he turned to follow his men into the shadowed streets. "I'm here to bring order out of chaos, not indulge in silly fantasies of playing king of the hill. There's potential in this city - I think it's high time someone created a working system here to let that shine through."

Alan's gaze slid toward his brother, but, for once, his twin was not looking back in that perfect synchronicity they had known all their lives. Instead, Bradley's eyes were fixed upon the dwindling figures, something like wonder upon his face.

One year and two months later, Alan boarded a bus, enlistment papers clutched in one bitter fist and a half-empty backpack in the other. Bradley was not there to see him off.

Four years, eight months later, Alan boarded a train to Quantico, Virginia as soon as his hip allowed, exchanging his uniform and medals for a suit and a badge, his bag no more full than it had been five years and ten months before.

Three years, two months later, a folder was slapped down before him, and when he looked inquiringly up at the sub-director, the man had only nodded, stony-faced, for him to open it.

Alan felt his throat click when he swallowed at what stared back at him from the top page - a knowing smirk from a grainy photo, captioned with, 'Kevin Flynn, alias Clu' and a summary of available stats.

"A mob boss halfway across the country?" he asked, hoping that his voice did not sound as thin to his superior's ears as his own. "What does this have to do with - "

"Keep going."

Alan could not hide his pause this time before he turned the page, but really, there was no point in trying. There was only one reason why this file would be in his lap now while the sub-director stayed to watch him read through a standard brief that began with Kevin Flynn.

"Agent Alan 'Tron' Baines, last name formally changed circa 2005 to mother's maiden name, from the city which is now harboring said mob boss and now a suspected dealer with terrorists - would you care to explain who 'Rinzler' is and your relationship with Clu's top muscle and hitman?"

Alan couldn't even swallow this time as he stared back at his brother's grim, scarred face.


	10. Can Every Day Be Christmas?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exquisitely detailed, perfectly hexagonal, its delicate white spines almost seemed to glow against the thoroughly black backdrop of his glove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Winzler's](http://winzler.tumblr.com) sketch: <http://307020.com/post/15843134138/hey-guys-hey-guys-hey-guys-snowflakes-this-is>

**[ System warning: Environmental update in 4 millicycles. ]**

When a slender figure emerged from Flynn's Arcade, a single representative stepped forward; baton extended, head bowed in greeting. The baton was taken with a similar nod of thanks, and soon, four lightcycles were racing away toward the system's center.

 **[ System warning: Environmental update in 2 millicycles. ]**

Heads lifted briefly in the streets at the heart of the city, causing eddies to curl around the temporary obstructions. Just eight nanocycles later, however, the momentary turbulences have vanished, leaving traffic flowing as smoothly as ever.

 **[ System warning: Environmental update in 1 millicycle. ]**

BASICs with the discreet marks of security and low-level architectural maintenance filtered themselves out of the general population. Still advertising - _alert low, status ok_ \- they nevertheless disengaged themselves and lined boundaries and thoroughfares; watchful, waiting.

 **[ System warning: Environmental update in 4 microcycles. ]**

"This one's marked as low impact - no need to suspend critical processes - but I want everyone to stay alert, got it? It's no excuse to get sloppy," Tron warned, and remained stony-faced until he had, presumably, received acks from the teams currently dispersed throughout the city.

"You don't trust me?" Quorra couldn't help needling.

Tron glanced up, gaze half-obscured by the scrolling lines upon a personal display visor, then just as quickly looked away. "We take all system-level changes with due caution."

"So it's my work you don't trust," Quorra shifted tactics, but this time allowed a bit of warmth to register. While their interactions have, thus far, been no less than stilted, she was not above 'loosening up' a little. Particularly if it meant amusement at the security chief's expense.

 **[ System warning: Environmental update in progress. Standby. ]**

 **[ System message: Environmental update complete. ]**

 **[ System message: End standby. ]**

There hadn't even been a stutter to indicate the modifications had taken hold.

"Smooth. Very smooth," Tron acknowledged, and Quorra grinned smugly. The comment was well-deserved, after all, and had nothing to do with who it had come from or his legendary standards of measure. "What exactly did you change?"

A roll of thunder boomed overhead as if in answer, audible even inside the security center, and Tron cast her a startled look before he was striding swiftly for the door.

"Tweaked some of the environmentals," Quorra chirped as she followed him outside.

"The system already reported that you made changes to the environment variables - " Tron began impatiently, already two strides out onto the wide balcony surrounding the office when he stopped as abruptly as if he had hit a wall. "What - "

"The _environmentals_ ," Quorra corrected, unable to keep the glee from her voice this time as she tilted her head back expectantly. She automatically wrapped her arms around herself at the new chill in the air, as she had learned to do in her user body; the digital one had no such reflexes, and she absently made a note to explore possibilities of adding a 'shiver' mode to program expression. "I updated the environment _variables_ in order to tweak the _environmentals_."

Tron was staring fixedly at his upturned hands, as if trying to make sense of what his external sensors were reporting, when there was another grumble of thunder overhead ... and the first snowflake drifted serenely through the wind-less space to land upon the tip of his middle finger.

Exquisitely detailed, perfectly hexagonal, its delicate white spines almost seemed to glow against the thoroughly black backdrop of his glove.

"It worked!" Quorra squeaked breathlessly, and only refrained from clutching at him in her excitement when the temptation of another snowflake began to drift down within her reach. Only when it was cupped safely within her palm did she think to look up to catch his reaction after the initial shock - and nearly ended up swallowing the snowflake whole when she almost clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Quorra ... " Tron had his hand extended as far from his body as possible without bringing dismemberment into the equation, eyes as wide as she had ever seen them. "What is - what did you _do_ \- "

"It's a user thing," Quorra grinned, gleefully backing up his expression with tags of _shock_ , _near-terror_ , and _blackmail_. "There is a holiday called Christmas, and when it's white, it's because of something called 'snow' - "

"Wait - I know 'Christmas' ... " Tron interrupted with a frown, head canted in a way that made Quorra automatically stiffen because he did that when he was trying to access mismanaged memory from _before_ -

The wraparound visor abruptly blazed with light. Tron jerked his head back with a user oath, still half-occupied by non-indexed searches, and Quorra lunged to catch the personal display when he swept it off his face, blinking dazzled eyes. "What - Team Delta, come in, what's going ... Tango, calm down, Tango, report - "

Quorra hastily adjusted the visor's settings before slipping it over her own eyes while Tron managed the first wave of emergencies through audio alone, then blinked and had to adjust them again when all she could see was an unintelligible blur of logs trying to race through the limited space.

Hysteria. That was what was overtaking the Grid. Quorra turned sharply to face the thickest cluster of buildings at the city's center, and amidst the up-falling rain of streaming reports across the visor's surface, could see the white static of a thickening blizzard graying out the city skyline. "Why are they - I don't understand, it's just _snow_ \- "

" - not going to - just get everyone inside, all right? No, it is _not_ harmful, the city is _not_ derezzing - no, not the clouds either - just get everyone inside and tell them to calm down!" Tron snapped, exasperation clear in his voice before he tapped audio off and reached out to her. She caught the motion out of the corner of her vision and quickly lifted up the visor; saw clearly when he stopped his hand just short of her elbow, face tightening, before he pulled his hand back. "They don't know what snow is - even _I_ don't know what snow is. They think the whole Grid is coming apart!"

"What? Why?" Quorra laughed once, a disbelieving sound, one she had learned from users, particularly when Sam had introduced them to the story of the Grid and her true origins. Tron looked unimpressed. "There's no reason for the Grid to just - to just _fall apart_ like that ... "

"Some are saying that the users have abandoned us - "

"Someone's always saying that - "

" - as in, they're _recycling the whole Grid_ by dismantling it completely and starting from scratch."

Quorra's mouth rounded into a small 'oh' of realization. In the resultant pause, Tron's gaze narrowed before he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "How much longer is this supposed to go on? You _did_ program in a termination clause, right?"

"Of course!" Quorra snapped, nettled. "It should last just half a millicycle."

Tron grimaced as he unholstered a baton and motioned for her to do the same. "It's faster if we just wait it out and do damage control here, then, than to try and get you out so that you can abort it from outside. Come on - I'm assuming it's safe to fly through this stuff."

* * *

Two millicycles later, they were sitting side by side, backs against Tron's lightcycle, shoulders just barely touching and neither one with enough spare resources to care much about it. Quorra groaned, drawing up her legs to let her head fall upon her knees, while Tron let himself slump just a little bit lower.

The snow had indeed blanketed the city, piling up in a uniform spread that nearly reached shoulder-height in places, carved awkwardly throughout as maintenance crews improvised as best they could. Quorra had little experience with how wind and variable rate of fall affected where and how snow would clump up, and so, as with all things on the Grid, there was an odd consistency to the stuff's overall appearance that looked nothing like the randomized mounds which occurred in the user world.

The sky had stopped grumbling, the programmed storm now past. There were occasionally outbursts of voices from distant establishments or the rumbling echo of some maintenance crew working through an alley. Otherwise, the streets were deserted; everyone tucked safely away for the time being. It was weirdly quiet, _Outlands_ quiet, and if it had not been for the underlying, ever-present hum of a healthy system running, it might almost feel as peaceful as the snow-jacketed woods Sam had shown her.

Quorra sighed. Yet another thing that she had _almost_ , but not quite gotten right.

"This will all go away?" Tron asked for the third time that millicycle, sounding like half his processes had already tipped over into sleepmode.

"Yes," Quorra answered for the third time, muffled against her legs.

"What is this stuff?"

Quorra tipped her head wearily onto its side, facing him. Tron had a double handful of snow spread out upon his hands, powdery flakes sifting through every so often to coat his lap. "It's snow. It's frozen water."

His brow knit, confused and disbelieving. "Frozen water is hard."

"Not always."

"It is. You had to program in an exception," he insisted.

"It's _chemistry_ ," she huffed, hoping that invoking user properties would shake him off the thread before she really had to admit her ignorance.

"And why make each individual unit a flattened shape when its descent could be optimized with a spherical or even conical - "

"Oh for user's Christ - !" she exclaimed before scooping up a handful of snow and flinging it at his head.

Tron jerked as it exploded against the side of his face, head momentarily lost amidst the flurry, one hand already half-raised for his disc before he turned to blink through a powdery crust at her. "Why did you do that?" he asked, sounding stunned and puzzled and maybe even a little hurt.

"Because you keep asking the wrong questions and that's what you _do_ with snow!" Quorra groused, refusing to melt before that oh-so-beseeching - all right, so she was just as much a user these days and she too had fallen for Marvin's big eyes and puppy-earnest tail-waggle ...

"It ... it has a function?" Tron both figuratively and literally lit up, his circuits abruptly brightening with fresh purpose.

Quorra blinked, fuzzy feelings retreating before a sudden wave of caution. "It's pretty? I don't know, I've never asked a - _mnrph!"_

Tron was on his feet by the time Quorra had scraped off enough snow to see again, and for once, the clear challenge of his stance and the _bring it on_ curl of his fingers triggered no memories of black masks and broken growls.

Grinning amidst the white and the silence, Quorra dug both hands deep into the snow.

* * *

In the end, as they sat slumped together, drained to near-danger by snowfights and laughter, Quorra glanced at him and tried to imagine that sinister, helmed monster from memory and nightmares; tried to summon it over the ragged, damp hair and the small, wistful smile made stiff by the cold, the closed eyes and the head wedged in abject exhaustion between her shoulder and the cycle's faring. And when the monster wouldn't be summoned, she smiled too, and reached out to brush a snowflake from his lashes.


	11. Betrayals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Opinions_ and _faith_ and _good intentions_ did not lead to results. The three hundred and sixty-three point two cycles before Flynn's exile had proven that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [pinkypirate's](pinkypirate.tumblr.com) sketch: <http://pinkypirate.tumblr.com/post/17505517067/just-drawin-my-babies>

Betrayal.

It was not a concept that Clu had forgotten, or was incapable of applying to his own regime. Quite the contrary. He did not practice self-deception or the nebulous user concept of "optimism", but faced, unafraid, the cold fact that because he had indulged in such practices before, there was a 1.00 probability that another program would conceive of the same tactic and, with only slightly lesser potential, apply it to the current administration.

He was also not under the misconception that a "perfect system" meant "perfect control", no matter what his detractors might say. As the system administrator, second only to user accounts (and, even then, one might find that debatable in recent cycles), he understood that efficiency meant insuring all programs played their parts; _not_ bloating the system with overseers for every last variable. When the proper buffers and margins for variability were built in, even errors and outright exceptions could be handled with grace and economy.

But it was true that what parameters he _could_ define were often bracketed by stringent controls - the Grid was Clu's and Clu left as little to chance as possible when it came to what was his.  _Opinions_ and _faith_ and _good intentions_ did not lead to results. The three hundred and sixty-three point two cycles before Flynn's exile had proven that.

It was being proven yet again this particular microcycle as the angry saw-buzz of an activated battle disc swept past his face, close enough for its sullen orange identifier to be drowned by the actinic white glare of its edge. He flinched only when it found its mark, forcing him to duck from a spray of fragmented voxels.

Betrayal had come in the form of four black guards, marching through ship's corridors; their masking red idents forged with skill enough to fool fellow sentries, but not Clu's system-level access.

The buffer had come in the form of Rinzler, who had stalked forward almost before Clu even began tagging the frauds, and the two sentries that had played escort to him activated their pikes, lowering their bright red tips in warning.

The rebels had, with unusual perspicacity, planned their own fallbacks, for while Rinzler was drawn away by the counterfeit black guard, Clu's first warning that there existed a second stage was one of the sentry's sudden deresolution.

The other sentry's specs were admirable enough to save him from an immediate copy of his fellow's fate. But the first blow had drawn crackling fissures through one half of his torso, and Clu didn't bother waiting to undock his disc as the program faltered under a second and finally collapsed.

An ISO. Identifiable by the flagrant display of non-utilitarian ornamentation, somehow smuggled aboard and hidden until now. The ISO had ferocity and determination but little real experience, and Clu segregated a full three-percent of his process-time to probing the question of how the algorithm had managed to board at all when his gaze snapped beyond, to a flicker of blue circuits and blond hair - 

An orange and white disc flew close enough to splash him with program remains.

A lean, compact form impacted his hard enough to send him sprawling and skidding across the deck.

Something arced through the air, thrown by that briefly glimpsed program, charging with a high-pitched whine that threatened to de-synch his cycle counts while a second white-orange disc rose to meet it -

A good ten feet from the epicenter, Clu still felt the drain; like a grueling microcycle in which tasks come one after the other with no time for proper garbage collection, unrecovered resources dragging at a dwindling pool of processor-cycles. Nearly at its source, the corridor deck and a nearby bulkhead glitched briefly into ghostly wireframes, surfaces rezzing and re-rezzing as they struggled to refresh through the lag, lightrays rendering crazily amidst the flickering geometries. At its center, Rinzler arched back, one arm out-flung as if clawing at the very air for purchase ... and there it was again, that shattered electronic howl, the voice of a friend-obstacle-enemy distorted into fractured frequencies.

Clu felt his circuits burn with sudden fury at the memory; at the reminder of how even that first step he had taken toward his given vision of perfection had been flawed, and now it was being challenged yet again by his lack of foresight.

The weapon's effects were fading even as Clu silently commanded for segregation and resource reallocation, even as he rolled to his knees and barely waited for the flickering floor to solidify before surging forward. Rinzler was falling, helmet vanished into the grid-suit's base config, circuits flickering madly betwen orange-blue-white-dark. Clu stripped his coat and swept it around the program in a single motion, catching up the limp body before he sensed the incoming missile and wrenched them both aside.

His gaze snapped toward the weapon's source, a petite blond with hair braided over one shoulder, expression determined as she waited with outstretched hand for her disc's return. Her ident marked her as a high-level officer, a data traffic administrator, someone who _belonged_ here.

He bared his teeth. "You. _You're_ responsible for this."

"And you have a lot more to answer for, Clu - " she retorted, gaze shifting as she cocked her arm back for another throw ... and froze, gasping. "No, it can't be ... "

Clu's eyes narrowed. With both arms occupied, twenty-three percent of his attention diverted to stabilizing Rinzler's state, and nearly thirty feet to the corridor's next junction behind him, his chances of an unscathed retreat were minimal. But the rebel program's reaction ... _that_ was interesting. "Ah. You know him," he drawled, straightening - letting his burden shift just enough to reveal even more of the bared, lolling head, letting the shielding collar of his coat slip aside.

"He's - he's not ... what did you - " The program's expression twisted as she stumbled forward, fist raised with blazing disc as if she would strike him down directly. "What have you done to him!"

"Oh, c'mon," he coaxed, pointedly tightening his hold upon the slack form and letting his smile sharpen when the disc lowered incrementally. "Nothing as bad as what you just pulled."

Visibly shaking, the program stared at him with obvious disgust and horror before she finally dropped her arm. "Don't you _dare_ attach this to me. Fine, you've won this time, but I'm not going to let you keep him for - "

_"Halt, Program!"_

"'For' what?" Clu asked indulgently as she whirled around, disc rising again, but not in time. A scant few nanocycles later, the reinforcements he had called for surrounded them in a menacing circle, and she was forced to her knees before him with a heavy hand upon each shoulder, the active red tip of a pike leveled upon the port on her back.

"Tell me who else you're working with."

"Or, what?" she mocked, expression a bitter combination of emotions he couldn't fully parse, gaze fixed solely upon his burden. "Rectification or the games? Go interface with a nullbit."

"Language. And from such a ... classic like you, no less," he mused, intrigued in spite of himself as he rifled through her basic properties and realized just how far back her timestamp went. In fact, her creation date ... 

"We've fought programs like you before," she hissed, gaze finally snapping up to meet his; fierce and uncowed. "And we won. It will only be a matter of time - "

"Time which you don't have," he interrupted, abruptly losing interest in the interrogation as the calculations began to align into disturbing patterns, uneasy and restless with Rinzler's stats still wavering in spite of the temporary expansions he'd made to help shore them. "Take her to the games."

"Will you make him face me there?" she snarled as the same hands which had held her down now wrestled her to her feet. "I should have known what he was, your 'champion', but I didn't think even you would stoop to this, to corrupting the - "

"I doubt you'd last long enough to face him, but if that's what you _really_ wish, that can be arranged," Clu growled, fingers digging into the shoulder and knee they were curled around, all of his previous irritation rapidly flagged once more by her overt familiarity, by her incessant prattle, by the _knowledge_ she seemed to hold, something he didn't know, how was that possible ...

" - dare you put him in _your_ colors! Yes, I will face him!" the program cried, stance bold, suffused with a confidence that had the sentries shifting warily, their weapons' collective hum swelling. "I will face him and show them what you've done, and one cycle - this one or the next or the next - we'll bring him back! We'll bring back Tr- "

Clu's boot struck her solidly in the middle and she lurched backwards ... releasing only a gasp when the pike behind her pierced the port and emerged from the center of her chest. 

He straightened from the side kick, curling his arms and what lay within them possessively close. "It seems it will be a derezzing after all," he pronounced flatly as she lifted wide eyes from the spreading cracks. 

Her lips parted, vocalizer muted; mouth wrapping around a single syllable before the fractures finally chased across her entire form and she slowly slumped to the deck in cascades of bits and bytes.

* * *

A power shunt, was all it was; an experimental method of rapid energy drainage that had nearly sapped Rinzler of even the minimal amount necessary for maintaining a standby state. Perhaps, with his special privileges, he had managed to even avert some of its most fatal effects in the picosecond between its activation and the results; Clu himself might have been lucky to fare so well if he had been hit directly.

Feeling strangely bare and exposed after the encounter with the trojan program, Clu had foregone the standard settings and settled Rinzler in his private office to recover after scans had assured him there was no other damage. At least, no other damage than what had already existed.

Clu traced the air just above the pixellated furrow slashing down the right side of Rinzler's face. Idle processes nudged a related pointer, and he hastily aborted the lookup when he noticed what memory the address led to. Irritated and unsettled, he abruptly turned to head for the exit - 

"Clu?"

He froze at the rasped query, whirled around to find eyes barely slitted open - eyes that gleamed the pure blue of an energy spring from the source, the same as the icon at his throat. "Tron?" he croaked.

"User ... feel like I got run over by a tank ... 's the 'cycle salvageable?" he half-slurred, eyes slipping closed even as a flicker of orange struggled through their depths. "Need t' tell ... vision. Yor- "

"Goto sleep mode," Clu half-ordered, half-entreated, reaching for his coat - still draped about the loose-limbed frame - and tugging its collar over the dimming blue squares, hiding the sight behind bright gold. When Tron's head twitched back rebelliously, mouth tensed as if struggling for words, another rogue pointer demanded attention and Clu hesitated only a moment before he curled one hand behind Tron's head and pressed his lips to the brush of dark hair.

A JPEG. This had occurred in a JPEG, except that he had been skinned in a different attire, the head he had been bowed over had been much smaller, and there were tags of #son #virus #comfort #sleep #bedtime attached to it.

As Tron subsided with a sigh, marred brow smoothing, Clu quoted the caption in a murmur. "Sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."


	12. The Sea, My Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a micro, all he could process was the shock of the impact. Static and snow skated through his inputs while processes staggered through a soft reboot sequence, and when he could finally register something other than the hard slap of their plunge into the Sea, there was only silence and the image of a soft, wavering light overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Winzler's sketch: <http://307020.com/image/32769761202>

A single nano was all it took to end the matter.

Rinzler's hand swept wide, the knife-edge glancing across the back of Clu's wrist, and the baton flew, spinning, out into the darkness. The administrator froze, staring, at that tiny glint of light arcing high and far away as an arm swung over his shoulder, and the horizon careened to the side just before a sudden shadow loomed in the corner of his eye -

For a micro, all he could process was the shock of the impact. Static and snow skated through his inputs while processes staggered through a soft reboot sequence, and when he could finally register something other than the hard slap of their plunge into the Sea, there was only silence and the image of a soft, wavering light overhead.

It was already small, and getting smaller, wreathed by a turbulent aurora and snaking trails of glittering points. When he reached out toward it, another shimmering swirl of helices drifted upwards, and he realized that they were bubbles, that it was the receding light of the tower he was seeing, and his mouth opened on a shout that was swallowed by the Sea even as he swallowed its tainted waters in turn.

He struggled. Forgot what held him for a moment when his other arm would not obey, kicked out and felt hope when he ascended for a scant body-length. And then something snaked around his leg, and he was sinking again, and he could only snarl mutely as the weight that dragged against his middle shifted and a shadow loomed between him and the light, the ever-dimming light ...

 _Why!_ he screamed into the sterile currents. To never have what he wanted, what he deserved, to forever be betrayed by those he held closest, in the most esteem ...

Black plates folded away, releasing a halo of silvered beads that burst up toward the surface. Rinzler stared back at him with pewter-blue eyes and lightning-blue gleaming at his throat, and fingers threaded gently with those of his outstretched hand before bringing it close again. 

Clu wondered if the light dimmed because they had sunk so far, or because the Sea was stealing them away, byte by byte. The latter was not as horrifying as he would have thought; it seemed a fitting revenge. His mouth curled bitterly as he finally closed his eyes, sealing the light away completely ... felt the way Rinzler simply pressed against him now rather than restraining, head tucked almost companionably against his shoulder.

Clu rested a hand against the drift of hair, and let all his hopes and dreams and ambitions float up and away with the last of the air. 


	13. The Tempered Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't until the door closed behind him that Jarvis realized the sound was coming from _within_ the command room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Winzler's](http://307020.com) illustration: <http://307020.com/post/40155345582/im-gonna-join-the-pile-of-people-channeling-their>

It wasn't until the door closed behind him that Jarvis realized the sound was coming from _within_ the command room.

He had initially assumed it was the result of some module maintenance being performed nearby; had, in fact, flagged a reminder to look up the maintenance schedules the moment he stepped through the door. But now that the odd, tickly rumble was clearly overriding the ordinarily oppressive quiet of the space, Jarvis had to fight a shudder as the noise seemed to crawl right through his shell to sidle up against his very core.

"Your excellency," he hesitantly approached the shadowed figure on the throne, turning his head this way and that to try and pinpoint the source. "My apologies for the disturbance, I'll see what I can do about damping the -"

The growl surged. Jarvis's head whipped around. And he took his first look - his first _good_ look - at just who was lounging so insouciantly in Clu's seat and realized that it was not, in fact, Clu at all.

It was an unfamiliar program; a rare thing in these command modules, when part of Jarvis' directives was to keep track of such things. It was sleek and wiry, dark as even the black guards were not, with only a few deep orange accents to show that it had depth at all - that it was not simply a 2D shadow. Even as Jarvis' identification routines picked restlessly at the program's signature - something familiar to it, though search strings maddeningly refused to return a perfect match - he began to realize the _program_ was the source of the unsettling noise.

"Are you glitched?" Jarvis blurted, and then winced backward though there had been no reaction from the program but for a single, lazy blink. He may be having trouble placing the newcomer, but there was no mistaking what that shell had been built for (and a deactivated baton dangling loosely in the circle of orange-lined fingers), and the very seat into which the program had chosen to settle itself would argue that it was not running wholly exception-free.

A futile look around, to find the command room indeed empty and no Clu lurking in a corner evaluating his performance, and Jarvis began to advance upon the interloper with stiff, sharp strides. "Do you want to be derezzed?" he hissed, reaching toward a shoulder. "You won't be getting even the games, His Excellency will throw you straight to the - !"

If it wasn't for the slash of light from the disc's edge, he might never have seen the movement. Black upon black upon shadow, the program's free hand had undocked disc and swept it toward Jarvis' throat in a single blink of the eyes. The hand holding the baton still rested, loose and relaxed, upon the chair's arm, while the orange gleam of narrowed eyes fixed upon him, nearly drowned by the glare of the disc angled just beneath his chin.

And still, that ever-present, grating growl, filling the room.

"Ah, I see you've met."

Jarvis gulped in nervous relief, and dared to tilt his head down only when the program settled back. The glitch didn't bother to dock the disc again; instead, simply letting the weapon's angry burr fade and setting it braced on edge upon the throne's opposite arm.

Routine tipped Jarvis into a shallow bow as Clu strode toward them from the door. The administrator's pace was unhurried; measured and serene. Jarvis slowly straightened, gaze following, only to halt, captured, at the feral regard fixed upon him. The glitched program did not move as Clu stopped behind it; in fact, the incessant rumble dropped nearly a register as a gloved hand - a single, yellow band running down its back - settled upon its shoulder. A faint squeeze, and the program seemed to _settle_ ... an edge momentarily sheathed, a weapon temporarily stowed.

"You may call him Rinzler. Play nice ... you'll be seeing quite a bit of each other from now on."


	14. To Be or Not To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No worries, ‘champion’ … we’ll have a worthy opponent for you again soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Winzler's illustration: <http://307020.com/post/49134871754/and-a-super-super-quick-one-for-dw-before-i-go>

_“Do you miss it?”_

_The words were warm and weighted next to his ear, as heavy as if a hand had been settled upon his shoulder. In the distance, there was a sharp blue burst of cascading light as another contestant lost a duel. He did not need the playback upon the overhead banners to pick out the program’s fatal error._

_“Do you wish you were there instead?”_

_He could feel the line of dead pixels pulling near the corner of his mouth as his lips thinned; felt more irritation for the incessant interruptions than his lack of active role in this centi’s tournament._

_“No worries, ‘champion’ … we’ll have a worthy opponent for you again soon.”_

_He had neither words nor inclination to answer as a chuckle faded with departing footsteps, and he soon overwrote the encounter altogether. A new opponent had emerged._

Good balance … equally proficient with left and right … a little too dependent on leg-work. Don’t raise your arm when you shin-block, they’ll cut right between your knee and elbow …

_Yes, he missed it, but no, he did not wish he was there instead._

_At least here, he could pretend that the other program had a chance._


	15. Not Such A Long Way Home After All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a counterpart for her as well, he had heard - fate as yet unknown. He feared what might have happened to this Yori, knowing what had happened to Tron …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Winzler's illustration: http://25.media.tumblr.com/3b9374b9737e6e355aedce1ebfcfc7a2/tumblr_mzj1jwViTN1qg8uuyo1_1280.png

Alan’s eyes met a too-familiar gaze - one that had often stared back at him from the mirror. Except it was framed by a visage a good 3 decades younger, and there was no mirror now. Too direct also, unblinking, and too shadowed … Tron’s head remained canted down in spite of all their encouragement, and the faded blue looked almost gray beneath his lowered brows.

Alan shivered, and couldn’t help drawing Lora closer to his side. Couldn’t help the possessive curl of his fingers around her waist. There was a counterpart for her as well, he had heard - fate as yet unknown. He feared what might have happened to this Yori, knowing what had happened to Tron …

A soft murmur of protest, a touch upon his shoulder, and he apologetically loosened his grip. “Sorry - ” he began, glancing down … and lost the rest of his words at the look upon his wife’s face.

There was fondness there, as he had imagined she might have looked if they had ever been blessed with a child. But most of all, there was wonder, eyes gleaming with more than just the reflected status lights of the laser console. Her hand still rested absently upon his arm, her attention focused solely upon the digital miracle before them, and when he followed her rapt gaze back to the lone figure, he wondered if maybe Tron was standing just a little bit straighter than before.

"Ready?" Lora asked, and there was no regret in her voice; no wistfulness or nostalgia. And Alan felt inexplicably lighter beneath her touch, and his shoulders straightened too. 

As the laser’s light stole Tron away, Lora smiled. “Talk to you soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then the ficlet inspired Winzler to do this! \o/ http://31.media.tumblr.com/47302888a3089b9e16c7fecea37e0eaa/tumblr_mzjt7jzFkb1qg8uuyo1_1280.png


	16. Choose Your Own Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it had been like this ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Winzler's illustration: http://25.media.tumblr.com/1112a954f37f0b86e47662ce39ca6eb5/tumblr_mzqaux1YLa1qg8uuyo2_1280.png

_Maybe it had been like this …_

"Hmmm."

He looked down at himself, brushed a last bit of disintegrated voxel from a gold-limned circuit, and rubbed a hand curiously over the hair on his chin. An exploratory shrug to test the weight of the robe draped upon his shoulders, and then he leaned down to hook the embedded disc out of the catwalk with a finger, giving it a jaunty flip before absently docking it upon his back.

He tilted his head to squint at the column of light stretching into infinity; only just beginning to subside. “Well, that didn’t seem so bad,” he mused, turning his back upon it to regard the shattered remnants of ship and spires - smooth ebony cubes still sparking with lightning and lifeless crags, all intermingled - cascading leisurely into the frothing sea.

Clapping his hands together, he rubbed them with an anticipatory curl of his lips. “Don’t know why I avoided that for so long, it barely tickled. Guess it’s time to make up for lost opportunities, now.”

* * *

 

_Or maybe it had been like this …_

A user no more.

Flynn had made the ultimate sacrifice, had given up his exalted status, to prove his loyalty to the Grid and its inhabitants. He was revered all the more, though, for all his loss of godhood, and the system had seen an unprecedented kilocycle of efficiency and order.

So proclaimed Clu over the gathered crowds, as Flynn bowed his head in benediction behind the administrator.

* * *

 

_Or maybe it had been like this …_

The user disc, the master key, rested heavy and solid within his hands.

"Sir, I can have a whole squadron deployed within - "

"It doesn’t matter," he interrupted with a curt gesture, eyes fixed upon the lightjet shrinking ever smaller into the distance. Reaching over his shoulder, he removed his native disc. "I’m not going to be distracted while we’re this close."

"Sir - !"

The honorific came out as barely more than a squeak as he locked the user disc in its place. And for a split nano … a split nano … the whole system seemed to become very, very small …

"Sir, your shell - !"

He felt the unfamiliar stiffness of hair upon his face when he breathed; had to brace his hands wide to avoid tangling the looser sleeves when he leaned over the console. None of these things curbed his grin by even a pixel as he drawled, “Time to go home.”

* * *

 

_Or maybe it had been like this …_

"Daaaaaaaave, c’mon! Happy hour’s gonna be over by the time we get there - "

"Christ, Steve, you know you make more in the extra hour you stick around here than you save by going to happy hour, right?" he rolled his eyes, but obligingly began to shut down the latest simulations.

"Dude, you trying to teach a software engineer math? I know that, but it’s the _principle_ of the thing.”

"Right. You, principles," he snorted as he skimmed the sim reports out of habit as they were dumped by the unraveling programs. "Huh. Weird. We’re still getting that weird convergence of the two threads; must have a leak somewhere and something’s getting over-written - "

_"Dave!"_

"Alright, alright, coming!"

A last click, and the screen shrank to a pinpoint of light before going dark.


	17. Pride Goeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Winzler's <http://dw-t.tumblr.com/image/98182878236>
> 
> With the additional challenge of "5 sentences" and the word "pride"

The crackle-shatter of light was familiar, as was the way it streamed past the arc of his leap, as was the face that watched from the side; impassive and assessing. He slapped a hand upon the ground, swiveled at the moment of contact, twisted and curled to land feet neatly beneath himself - disc still held at the ready, always at the ready.

There was a slow clap, and the face of the creator creased, and the voice of the creator said, “Good. Very good.”

And he felt an answering surge inside him, something that made his face beneath the mask crease in the same way, and it took longer than usual to find the proper reference for it, as little-used as the index had been: pride.


End file.
